The Island Realm
by Firth of Fifth
Summary: Abandoned by his shipmates in the middle of the ocean, Valerio washes ashore on a long-forgotten island ruled over by a dark god.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_Alone, alone, all all alone  
__Alone on a wide, wide sea_

_ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_

* * *

Trembling, he took a huge bite out of the shapeless mass fetched up by his fishing rod. In just moments the realisation dawned that it was, in fact, the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted.

"Ack! Squid!"

He spat the mouthful out overboard and tossed the rest of the squid as far out to sea as possible. There was a satisfying splash as it hit the water and disappeared beneath the waves. Exhausted from that slight effort, he collapsed back into the boat.

There was, he thought listlessly, little point in laying the fishing rod out for another go, as the largest thing he had caught so far had been an old boot and he'd been trying since yesterday evening. At least, he thought it was yesterday evening. He couldn't tell whether it was just one day he had spent alone on this vast ocean…after being abandoned by his shipmates in this accursed coracle.

Weakly he splashed at the water with a limp hand. In the beginning he'd been angry; he screamed and shouted and cursed away to the sky, finally breaking down and weeping in anguish. He'd thought about using the sword that lay across his knees in the tiny boat, the only thing apart from his rod that he'd been allowed to take; thought about using it to kill himself quickly, instead of waiting for the slow, torturous death that he knew awaited a marooned sailor.

Wearily, Valerio wondered if he was going mad. There was a dark smudge across the edge of the horizon. He tried moving his head to see if it would go away, but it remained, growing, if anything, clearer and clearer. Eventually he began to see tall shapes that looked like trees sticking out of the dark mass, and later on other things that looked like rocks, or maybe cliffs.

With a sigh, Valerio realised it was land he was approaching. He didn't much care. He would die out here all alone…no food, no water…just trees, and rocks, and land…

The coracle fetched up against the beach with the slightest of exclamations. Through a dim haze, Valerio registered the impact, but did not react. He lay there in a stupor as the sun began to sink in the sky and a deep twilight invaded the beach. Suddenly his eyes shot open. There was a curious scratching noise coming from off to his right, coming closer with each passing second. He tried to stand, but his weak legs twitched and crumpled under him and he toppled with a splash into the sea.

Arms were grabbing at him, and he found himself being pulled like a dead weight from the water and heaved onto the sand. Another push and he had been rolled over to lie staring up at the stars. The Little Moon winked down from the sky in a wreath of clouds, and by its dim glow he saw a face peering carefully over him. The face was strange. In his half-dead state he was sure there was something wrong with it, but couldn't have said what exactly. Then something was being pushed into his lips and the cool, flowing sensation of water trickled over his swollen tongue and down his parched throat. For the longest time he lay motionless, in ecstasy, wishing the flow would never stop, but after a while it did and the thing was removed from his mouth.

He licked his lips slowly, savouring the new energy flowing through his body, and in dry, hoarse tones he whispered: "Where am I?"

There was a long pause, and he thought no-one else was there and he was still back on the boat, waiting to die on the endless sea, playing out his last few moments in some dreamy hallucination.

"On a beach." The reply came suddenly out of the darkness. "In the land of Vardenfell."

* * *

He came awake slowly. There was a light breeze playing across the sand, and it ruffled his hair gently as he sat up. The sun was high in the sky; in was morning, and he was hungry. A groan burst from his lips. His stomach was on fire; he put a hand over it gingerly and groaned again. Food. He looked around desperately.

From the high rock cliffs on one side to the gravelly spit that stuck out like a giant finger into the sea, the beach was stretched for only a hundred metres or so between the two. A little further in and the sand began to slope before it hit a line of tall, windswept trees, crouched over like old men, their branches gnarled and twisted. In the other direction the sea lay calm and unending till it blurred into the sky on the outermost edges of vision.

And there, fetched up against the shore, was the little coracle. It was tied with a piece of rope to a short wooden pole sticking out of the sand, and it rolled back and forth in the tide.

Valerio stood up so quickly his head swam and he tottered for a few seconds on the verge of falling over. There was someone in his coracle. His hand went to his belt, before realising his sword was in the little boat. Making up his mind he grabbed the rope that was tied to the stick, and like a blind man stumbled along it out to the coracle. The waves, although gentle, slapped at his legs and threatened to knock him over. Finally his hands clutched wood and threw himself over the side of the boat, whereupon he let out a loud exclamation of shock.

In the tiny, cramped space, Valerio found himself pushed up against the strangest face he could have imagined. He tried to scramble away but the boat rocked dangerously and he kept still, breathing heavily. The someone looked perfectly calm and was crouched over his fishing rod, examining it closely, unsurprised by Valerio's sudden arrival.

"You are very weak." It was a female voice, but with deep purring undertones. "Go back to shore and I will get you food. Damn!" she hissed, throwing the rod down before fixing him with a beady gaze. "You are strange to me. Your clothes, your tools, I have never seen the like. Who are you?"

Again, he looked at her face. Slowly, the pieces came together in his mind; the long ears, the furry muzzle, the amber eyes…then the realization dawned. "You're a Khajit!" he exclaimed excitedly. "But…you were supposed to have died out centuries ago…since before the fall of the empire."

She tossed her long braided hair angrily. "Well, I am still alive, aren't I? And now, I think, you will tell me where _you_ come from." She pulled a small knife from her belt and with lightning speed placed the point under Valerio's chin. He swallowed a shout. A trickle of blood ran down the knife.

"Steady on," he choked. "I'm not an enemy."

"Then what are you?"

"A sailor. I was abandoned out on the sea in a boat."

The Khajit waited as if for more of this story. When none was forthcoming, she slowly withdrew the dagger and sat back in the coracle. "So why have you come here?"

Valerio didn't dare put a hand to his chin; she still looked ready to spring at him if he moved too soon. But he felt a flush of anger at her words.

"I didn't want to, did I? I didn't even have a paddle, I just drifted here."

She still looked wary. "You are…all alone?"

"Of course I'm alone. Can you see anyone else on this beach?"

This finally seemed to satisfy her, and the knife was returned to her belt with an audible sigh of relief from Valerio.

"My name is Catchut." she said.

"Esset Valerio," he replied.

"Come. You must be very hungry." They waded along the rope back to the beach, then she led the way as they trudged up the hot sand to the line of trees. It was noon and the sun was blazing overhead, but a cool wind was blowing off the sea and helped cool them down. When they reached the treeline Valerio collapsed onto the thin khaki soil. His companion produced two strips of dry meat from somewhere (he didn't see where) and handed the first to him. He tore a long piece off and chewed it vigorously, letting the raw salty taste fill his mouth. He ripped off another bit, then ate the last piece whole. Wordlessly, she handed him the second and watched as he devoured it - slower this time – before smacking his lips and sitting back against a tree. There was silence for a few minutes as Valerio savoured the feeling of a full stomach. With food out of the way, the next problem presented itself to his mind: where in the Nine was he? Sneaking a sideways glance at his companion confirmed that she was indeed a Khajit; at least, she conformed to everything Valerio had ever heard about them. He tried to recall those old stories about the 'cat-people', as they were often called. Usually they were tricksters and thieves, cunning, sneaky and always untrustworthy. He sneaked another glance at her. She was sharpening her knife on a small rock, darting quick glances here and there and sniffing the wind.

A branch cracked somewhere in the trees. Instantly she leapt up and snarled, her beady eyes now buzzing and her head twisting as she tried to look in all directions at once, an expression of fear etched into her features.

"What - " he began

"Quiet!" she hissed, and continued to gaze round as if expecting an attack. The day seemed to acquire an ominous feel; the wind picked up and rustled the trees around them as a cloud drifted over the sun. In the sudden gloom, Valerio strained with his ears to here some sound that shouldn't be there. Catchut was now completely still.

A squirrel jumped from the treetops a couple of paces away, landed lightly on the ground and scampered away. Valerio gave a hoarse laugh that quickly faded under a quailing look from the Khajit.

"Think it's funny, eh?" she growled. "The beach is a dangerous place during the day. We must not stay here."

"Where would we go?"

Catchut opened her mouth, then closed it slowly. A sly look stole over her face. "Back to the camp," she said. "It is not far. Just a short walk through the trees and over the Highroad. We can be there before dusk."

Valerio frowned. It wasn't as though he was ungrateful to Catchut for her help; without her, he would have surely died, but when he looked into her cat-like face and heavily lidded eyes, it was hard to trust her. She seemed to sense his reluctance.

"Do you think you will survive here alone? You fool. You think you can somehow cross the sea and go back where you came from?" She saw the uncomfortable look on Valerio's face and knew her guess had been correct. "We do not go out on the sea. Ever. To do so is death."

"I came over it well enough, didn't I?" said Valerio, annoyed.

"Then you had Grimfire's own luck, and much good it did you, starving and thirsty."

There was silence for a while. Valerio shut his eyes against the burning sun and played with some of the grass stalks at his feet. The _burr-burr_ of an insect started up behind them. Eventually he said:

"At the camp…is there more of your kind. More Khajit?"

"Yes," she said, shortly.

He had been toying with the notion that she was the last of her kind, but this wrecked that theory and raised more questions.

"Is everyone here a Khajite? I don't even know where _here _is."

"We are on the island of Vardenfell, and there are many Khajit here." She looked round at him, a stab of curiosity in her voice. "You say the other Khajit have died out. How is this?"

He thought for a moment. "I…I'm not sure." It wasn't the truth exactly, but she might not handle the truth to well, and he needed every friend he could find here.

The Sun began to sink in the sky and the shadows lengthened. Valerio woke up suddenly, his face pressed close to the ground, and realised he must have dozed off. Catchut hadn't moved from where she had been sitting earlier.

She saw him wake, and lithely stood up. "Come. You have slept long enough and the day is almost gone. We should make it to the camp before sunset."

Valerio groaned and pressed a hand to his temple; he could feel the beginnings of a pounding headache. Catchut was adamant, though, and hauled him roughly to his feet. "If we stay here we will be dead by morning," she said with deathly calm. He longed to ask what was so dangerous about the beach, but before long the walk began to exhaust him. They were walking through endless trees. Strange trees with grey bark and star-shaped leaves that were totally silent in the still air. Valerio started to think that the whole forest was dead, the undergrowth was bones beneath his feet…crunching…crunching…

And suddenly there were no more trees, and they were looking up at a sharply-sloping embankment that reared up across there path and extended both left and right as far as they could see. They picked there way slowly up it. At the top was a thin stretch of flat land, and Valerio found himself standing on a cobblestone path that snaked across the top of the embankment.

"The Highroad," said Catchut without pause, continuing across and starting to descend the other side. "It runs unbroken almost the whole length of the Isle, or so I am told." Valerio stopped to look in the direction they were going, but the light was now so dim he could only make out a vague hilly landscape below the bright red smudge of horizon.

A short time later, when darkness had really fallen and the night air had quickly chilled to a biting cold, they came across a group of standing stones. Valerio was completely blind in the darkness and had to grasp tight to Catchut's hand as she led them carefully through the stones.

"We're nearly there," came the voice from somewhere in front. "Can you not see the lights?"

And indeed, he thought he could see a vague blur approaching slowly. Finally the blur materialised into a figure standing upright against one of the stones with a torch held in one hand. A breeze whipped the torch's flame around wildly, and by its light Valerio could see that the figure was Khajit, dressed in some sort of pale leather armour and helmet. The figure raised a hand and spoke.

"Welcome to those who come unannounced in the dark."

Catchut, in turn, held out her palm and replied.

"Gladness to those who welcome nightly wanderers."

This ritual being done the figure turned and walked away. Catchut followed, and Valerio quickly fell in behind. They passed through two large stones with lit torches in brackets and patterned by strange markings. It was the first sign of any sort of civilisation Valerio had seen on the island, and it relieved some of his tension.

There was more to come, however. Beyond the gateway stones was a clearing of dead shrubs and dry soil. Broken rocks cracked underfoot. The clearing was sparsely populated by small Yurts, which looked like dim squatting beasts, and the occasional campfire, around which were crouched more Khajit. They looked up as he entered, but apart from a few whispers that the wind quickly snatched away the place was completely silent. He stood, swaying slightly from exhaustion, while Catchut held a whispered conversation with some of the others, who threw unreadable looks at him every now and again. He was not invited to join the discussion.

He faded out for a moment, then realised someone was speaking.

"…Yurt at the Western entrance you can use. Come on," said Catchut, taking him by the arm and quickly hurrying him along past more of the strange tents. He longed to lie down and sleep, but someone kept insisting on holding him upright. All he wanted to do was sleep…sleep for a long time.

"Here we are," said a voice, and then he was inside a dark space, and there was a thick bedding of wool that stretched across the floor. He collapsed onto it.

* * *

He woke to the sound of screaming. It was still dark and for a few moments he forgot where he was, thinking he was still in the cabin aboard ship during a storm, and that he had fallen out of his hammock. The screaming stopped abruptly.

He found his way out through the tent's entry flap and stumbled out into the darkness. A pale streak along the Eastern sky signalled the approach of dawn. Seemingly all was calm; the camp lay quiet.

He stood there, trying not to breath, desperately listening for some sound that shouldn't be there. As he listened, the deep silence grew eerie, then disturbing, and finally terrifying when Valerio realised there were not even any of the usual sounds that accompanied daybreak; the sound of birds, or animals, or of the camp beginning to wake.

WHOOSH. There! He saw it. A shadow had detached itself from one of the standing stones that surrounded the tents.

WHOOSH. Something flew past his head with a rush of air. He started to run towards the shadow.

This time he heard the air move and felt something sting him on the leg. He batted it away and kept running.

The air turned suddenly thick; it was like trying to wade through mud. The edges of his vision went dim, a flickering darkness that spread across his eyes. Slowly, he began to fall. This time when unconsciousness came, it hurt.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Gaulon de'Tocquerville rapped his knuckles smartly on the wooden stall to get the seller's attention. The bleary-eyed Khajit pawnbroker looked up from whatever he was doing and gave a standard tradesman's smile to the potential customer.

"Excellent goods here for sale, sera, only the best quality for The Eyes of God."

"Come along now, Rayvon," said Gaulon lazily. "You've been at the Skooma again, I know, but that's no reason to forget your manners."

"The High Lord knows we all have our little vices," Rayvon replied smoothly. "Certainly we cannot all indulge in the high class of vice enjoyed by some -"

"That is quite enough. Now, I will forget your ill-manners if will remember that I only visit your repulsive little stall to view your more valuable merchandise."

A sly grin stole across Rayvon's long face. He reached down smoothly and produced a small box, barely a foot wide, from somewhere in the stall, and placed it in front of Gaulon.

"The…er…_merchandise_, sera."

With a brisk flick the box was opened. Inside, a small pile of gems gleamed on red velvet. Gaulon reached in a hand and withdrew one, a medium-sized yellow topaz with a few minor flaws. A gem, he believed, was nothing without a few flaws to give it character, much in the same way that a man with no vices was dull.

But the gem was replaced carefully back in the box and instead he chose a larger emerald of unusual cut, a connoisseurs choice, he thought. Rayvon's eyes sparkled as he handed over the gem, receiving a handful of gold coins in return. Gaulon, because of his weakness for precious stones, was a preferred customer and benefited from a small discount on all purchases. Rayvon, in turn, was the best fence of illegal goods in Vardenfell with a stash that continued to grow larger and more valuable by the day, which was why Gaulon hadn't yet handed him over to the Priests for execution. Just a matter of time, though, Gaulon thought as he received another greedy smile and knowing wink from the Khajit.

Gaulon was the Eyes of God, spymaster, a spider at the centre of a vast web of spies, agents and informants. For over thirty years he had ruthlessly suppressed any sign of disloyalty or discontent and was rightly feared as the tyrannical left hand of the Neverine himself, but now…He couldn't have placed the exact moment when it had struck him that what he was doing was wrong, no more than he could have put his finger on why it was he now felt this way. Using his informants he had learned of an underground resistance, and resolved to join them. It had taken many months, but finally he had been reluctantly accepted, although he was far too hated to be introduced fully into the resistance. His powerful position in the Realm made him incredibly valuable, however, and was being put to good use.

He walked back along the street and his guards fell into step behind him. Both of them were deaf and dumb but powerfully built and well-trained with the ceremonial axe, the _chelmarnot. _Gaulon himself wore no weapon, but was dressed in the traditional robe of the Eyes of God, as well as a significant amount of jewellery: bracelets, necklaces, rings – all made with gems from Rayvon's store and all ludicrously expensive. People heard him approach because of the jangling, and could see his jewellery gleam a mile away.

They had been walking down the slope away from the village, along a gentle track that was almost never used any more and was probably left over from before the Second Coming. It ended up by a small lake that the locals called Ayash, which meant Devil's Water, a name that came from the strange sounds that emanated from the surrounding rocks. Enclosed on all sides by dry scrubland punctuated with stunted trees, and with a cold South-Easterly wind that rippled across the surface, the lake was a forbidding place and therefore fitted its use perfectly.

Gaulon walked up to the water's edge and indicated his guards to remain there. Hitching up his robe gingerly, he waded out a couple of meters into the lake and then walked in parallel along the side, eventually disappearing behind a sharp stand of rock. The water was freezing, and Gaulon felt the cold creep slowly up his leg and spread through his body, making him shiver. No matter how many times Gaulon did this it was never anything less than starkly uncomfortable. He found the place in the rock and touched one of his rings to it. The ring glowed briefly with a white light and a fake slab of stone rolled silently to one side, admitting him entrance to the cave.

A lip of rock at the base of the doorway stopped the water from entering. Gaulon stepped over it and into the darkness of the tunnel. He put up his right hand and twisted one of the rings, which suddenly began to shine with a deep red light. It was just in time. The stone door slammed shut and a myriad of strange shadowed were thrown onto the dark, craggy walls of the tunnel. Gaulon hurried on. The shadows pooled in the spaces and gaps, gathered behind stalagmites and twisted as the light moved.

As usual the tunnel was freezing and humid, like moving through cold, thick soup. It was straight with no turns, and led down at a sharp incline. No matter how many times Gaulon had come here he still hated it, not least because the ground was uneven and filthy; he had slipped twice already and his robe was covered in dirt.

There was a young woman waiting at the bottom of the tunnel, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully. Her hair was long and golden, contrasting with the plainness of the dress she wore.

"Gaulon!" she said, her eyes lighting up. "We were worried you weren't coming."

"I got your message," Gaulon replied shortly. "You shouldn't have sent it. It's becoming too dangerous for me to come down here."

The woman's face became fearful. "Why? Has He found out about you?"

"No, otherwise I would be dead, Isabel. Why did you want to see me?" He came out of the tunnel and into a small room, more of a cave really, with roughly-hewn walls and thick stalagmites protruding up from the ground. The only light came from a few torches bracketed around the room. Somewhere, there was a _drip_ _drip_ _drip_ of falling water.

The woman looked over her shoulder, and Gaulon saw that in one corner of the room there was a man, old and bent, leaning over a large wooden table. Gaulon strode over to the table, and as he did so the old man started, looked up from his work and turned slowly around, his face twisting into a grimace of recognition as he saw Gaulon.

"Archie's nearly finished the Weapon," Isabel said. "We can let you have it soon."

Gaulon looked at her incredulously. "That's what you wanted to tell me?"

She opened her mouth, and then just nodded meekly.

"Do you know the danger I've put myself in just coming here?" He was rapidly losing his temper. "The Order is already suspicious of me. Eyes of God or not one wrong move and I'd be tortured and executed. And you needn't delude yourself that I wouldn't tell them everything I know about the Resistance!"

"Don't you yell at her!" The old man – Archie – gave Gaulon a look that could kill. "If there was any justice you _would_ be caught, and tortured and killed! You deserve nothing less."

"Please, stop," Isabel, said desperately, but Gaulon shouted over her.

"You need me, you old fool. How else is this plan going to work? You need _me_ to get close to _Him_."

"Fetcher!" spat Archie. "All the people you've killed down the years…and now you think one good deed will make up for it, will get you off the hook."

"Please, Uncle," Isabel spoke pleadingly and clutched at Archie's arm. "We're all working together, we're on the same side."

"With him? With the same man who had my brother and all his family killed? Your father, Isabel…your father died because of this man." He pointed a trembling finger accusingly at Gaulon.

"I know, Uncle, I know," Isabel spoke softly. "But it's not the time. Now we have to work together. Gaulon can help us."

There was a long in which the heavy breathing of the two men mingled with the soothing murmur of Isabel's voice and the dripping of the water to create a soft music. Gaulon smoothed his robe and tried to regain some of his poise.

Eventually, he said, "Well. Your niece seems to have some sense, at least." He turned to go, and spoke over his shoulder. "Do not send for me again. When the Weapon is ready, have it carried to me, with instructions on how to use it." He slowly began to climb back up the tunnel, leaving Isabel and Archie alone in the cold cave.

* * *

Valerio awoke to the sound of shouting. A wicked pain pulsed along the side of his head and he could feel something wet trickle down his face. His blurry vision began to focus and in front of him a scene appeared: three men, dressed in short mail hauberks and helmets, were struggling with a captive Khajite, who fought and scratched ferociously but was outnumbered. Finally the captive was pinned to the floor and subdued, the sounds of struggle replaced with heavy breathing as the men caught their breath.

"Gods, just our luck; the one female who doesn't want to go quietly," gasped one of them.

"Just give her another shot, that'll make her easier to handle."

"Yeah, 'cos it'll kill her. You know the rules: one shot per day. Any more and they don't wake up."

"That'll be a blessing."

A high, cold laugh came from behind Valerio, and he realised that there was another one – standing where he couldn't see.

"Well," the new voice was mocking. "If you've finished beating up that helpless Khat, you can start on this one. He's just woken up."

Valerio tried to get up but his body wouldn't respond. Two of the soldiers came over and stood over him, but the third spat and said: "He's no Khat, Gwing."

"Of course not," the mocking voice continued.

"He looks like a runaway to me. You know the rules about runaways."

"Of course he looks like a runaway to you, Jedart, but what your inferior eyes miss is very obvious to me." Suddenly another figure appeared above Valerio, and that figure kneeled down in front him and leaned in close, his face a dark mask.

"Yes," said Gwing, softly. "No runaway. His clothes…" A hand reached out and stroked the coarse white cotton of Valerio's sailor shirt. "How interesting. We will have to take him as well as the Khat."

"I don't see why, he still looks like a runaway to me. I say cut him and leave him here."

"No, he comes." Gwing's voice was still soft.

"Have you gone mad? We don't have enough food for the journey back as it is, not after we lost the pack when Captain Regges was killed. You're just desperate, Gwing. It was your fault the Khat's realised we were there and the Captain got killed. You just don't want to come back empty-handed."

Very slowly, Gwing stood up.

"Well. So you think food is a problem?"

In one fluid motion he drew a knife from his belt and plunged it into Jedart's chest. Jedart's eyes bulged and he scrabbled wildly at Gwing for a few seconds before slowly sinking to the ground, his final cry still lodged in his throat.

"Gods, why did you do that?"

"Gwing, you fool, what have you done?"

Gwing ignored the other two soldiers and calmly stooped down to wipe his knife on Jedart's jerkin.

"Ack, messy…"

He stood up again, his own armour shining with blood.

"Jedart was killed for not obeying the orders of his commanding officer. A similar fate will befall anyone who disregards my next instructions. Clear?"

The two others nodded.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Yes, Captain Gwing."

"Good. Now, get these two up. It's a seven-day journey back through the forest. At half-rations each we should arrive in Corby just before we starve."

Valerio was hauled roughly to his feet, and tried not to vomit as the world swung and twisted around him. He gulped a few mouthfuls of air and waited for the dizziness to pass, finding when it did that he was standing on a narrow path in the middle of a forest, the pale sun shining through thick branches overhead and hardly penetrating the dense undergrowth at his feet. Like the trees on the beach these ones were unknown to him, but just familiar enough to unsettle him with their strangeness: like a good friend you haven't seen for a long time and returns changed from his travels.

Gwing was walking off along the path ahead of them, a brown hemp pack slung across his shoulder. The other soldier was supporting the Khajite, who Valerio now recognized: Catchut returned his look with a baleful glare of her own, her braided hair hanging wildly across her face which was smeared with dried blood. She looked worse than Valerio felt.

"Can you walk?" the soldier said harshly.

Catchut nodded contemptuously and tried to walk on with her usual swagger, but she looked unsteady and held her head as if dizzy.

"Listen here, you two." The other soldier was talking. "Normally we catch a lot more of you and we tie you all up in line so's you can't escape. I don't see the point myself in taking just two slaves back, but Gwing's the captain now and what he says goes. We ain't gonna tie you up – not during the day at least – but you'd better not make a bolt for it 'cos there's no second chances." He drew his sword and pointed it at them meaningfully. "So just keep yourselves in order and we'll be back in Corby in a week."

"What is this place?" asked Valerio.

The guard looked at him strangely. "Westwoods." he said eventually. "Now no more talking. Let's get as far as we can before dark."

The rest of the day was a horrible blur for Valerio. He and Catchut were made to stand in front and march while the two guards walked only a pace behind. The forest got thicker the further they went and pretty soon it seemed as though they were walking in a strange twilight, the trees muffling any sound so that their footsteps were swallowed up and an eerie silence prevailed. Pressed by the trees, the path grew narrower until they were forced to walk single file and fight against branches and shrubs that blocked the way. All the time Gwing was a distant figure along the path, allowing them neither food nor rest, and when finally the twilight deepened into real darkness and they stopped for the night Valerio collapsed on the ground hardly able to move.

Catchut, incredibly, hardly looked out of breath, though she was scratched and filthy. The two soldiers looked almost as bad as Valerio felt.

Silently, Gwing distributed the meagre amount of food: a small hunk of hardened bread and a thin strip of meat to chew, washed down with tepid water from the water pouch. Darkness was gathering between the trees.

Valerio lay on the ground shivering. All five of them were crowded close together to conserve heat. He felt the shape next to him shift slightly.

"Human? Valerio?" whispered Catchut. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," he whispered back.

"Were you thinking of running away?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Don't." He felt her move so that they were facing each other. An owl hooted high in one of the trees then fell silent.

"Why not?"

"This is a bad place. Those who wander from the path are lost."

"Who are these people?"

"Slavers from the south." Catchut's voice was bitter. "They come more often now. Sometimes we fight them off, yet still they come."

A wolf howled loudly in the distance and one of the soldiers woke up with a gasping snort. Valerio realised there would be no more opportunity to talk so he shut his eyes and tried to sleep, feeling Catchut's warm breath still gently tickling his face.

* * *

Next morning, the strange twilight that had reigned all through yesterday seemed, if anything, deeper and colder than before. There was no breakfast, and they marched in the same manner as before with Valerio and Catchut in front and the two soldiers behind. The morning passed in much the same monotonous fashion, interrupted only when they stopped to eat at what could have been midday. Telling the passage of time was nearly impossible, so it could perhaps have been mid-afternoon when Valerio saw Gwing stop suddenly in the path ahead.

He seemed to be staring down at something. They quickly caught up and found themselves looking at the thing that was blocking the path. It was a large metal sphere about the height of a man's waist, shining a deep coppery colour that was almost gold, and with a pattern of thin cracks across its surface. Behind it was a shallow furrow that stretched back along the path, as if the thing had rolled here.

Valerio ran his thumb and little finger along either side of his face to protect against the evil of this place. By the look on Gwing's face, he gathered the thing had not been here when the slavers passed through.

Catchut announced: "This is a warning from the Forest Witch. We must go back and not continue on this way."

Valerio was surprised when the two soldiers muttered their agreement.

"She might be right, captain. Better to turn back now."

"Superstitious fools!" Gwing spat. But just then Valerio, who had been looking around anxiously, spotted something through the trees off to their right.

"Look, there! What's that?"

They all turned to peer into the blackness. Where the thick tree-trunks met the dark mass of the undergrowth about a hundred paces from the path was a dark, squatting shape that gleamed slightly as a patch of light caught its domed, burnished top. More quick glances through the trees showed more spheres scattered in a rough circle all around them. There was a grating hiss as Gwing and the soldiers drew their swords.

"We're surrounded by them," cried one of the soldiers.

"We must go back," said Catchut.

"Gods, where did they all come from?" Valerio felt a wave of panic wash over him. "They weren't here a minute ago."

"We have been left only one direction to go." Catchut indicated back along the path the way they'd just come.

"No-one's going back," said Gwing.

"Captain, we're surrounded."

"By what?" Gwing went up to the sphere barring their way, hesitating only a moment before bringing the flat of his blade down on its shiny surface. There was a dull clang, as if the thing was completely solid, but no response.

"We're not going back," Gwing repeated. "Gadsby, Moll, get these two out in front. It's not far to the old mill. There's a ford there, once we cross it we'll be safe." When they didn't move he shouted: "Quickly, you fools!"

So Valerio and Catchut were forced at swordpoint to the front of the line, with Gwing taking the rear. They went tentatively round the sphere in the path, trying not to touch it, but found themselves walking along the strange furrow as it led further along the track. They went quickly and without speaking, heedless of the low branches that struck out at them and heedless of the spheres, which could be seen all around them through the trees, always the same distance away.

The temperature dropped. Above them began the soft patter of rain as it hit the forest canopy, and, a few minutes later, the first drops started to fall through to the woodland floor. Catchut's leather stayed mostly dry, and the water just pinged off the soldiers armour, but in a matter of moments Valerio's clothes were soaked, weighing him down and chilling him to the bone. He panted and gasped, breathing great clouds of steam, trying to concentrate on the next step, the next yard, the next turn in the path…

He noticed that the light was brightening, and the trees thinning, becoming sparser. Gwing had noticed it too because he cried out for them to hurry, and, with a sudden burst of energy, they rounded the next bend and stumbled out into a clearing and a rocky path that led down to a river.

Lonely and forlorn, the old mill sat hunched over the river, a mass of cracked grey stone and rotten woodwork half-visible through the curtains of rain. Beside it, a narrow plank-bridge lay precariously over the water. They made for that, slipping over the wet stones and throwing nervous glances back in case anything emerged from the line of trees.

Catchut was running out in front, with Valerio just behind. The three soldiers were weighed down by their armour and lagged. Valerio saw the Khajite reach the bridge and pull up sharply.

With dreamlike slowness, he saw one of the spheres roll out from inside the mill and plant itself firmly in front of the bridge. The cracks in its surface widened and lengthened, plates slid past each other with a wrenching groan and out of the hole that had been created emerged a monstrous thing, like a human torso made of metal with a bullet-shaped head and two arms. One of the arms ended in a hand-shaped object. The other ended in a blade.

The thing reared above Catchut, rain cascading down its bronzed surface. It knocked her aside with one sweep of an arm and hurled itself towards Valerio, who stood rooted to the spot. To his great surprise, though, it went straight past him up the slope, rolling on its spherical base, towards the soldiers. One of them screamed and threw his sword up but it was no use; there was a terrible crunch as the thing brought its blade down, ripping through armour flesh and bone. Shaking the corpse free, it grabbed the other soldier with a hand and began to squeeze the life out of him. Gwing used the opportunity to dart past the thing, pushing Valerio aside as he sprinted down to the bridge. In a flash Gwing was across, and with a great heave tumbled the rickety plank into the rushing water below, trapping Valerio on the other side.

Meanwhile the thing had finished with the other soldier, and with an ominous grating sound turned back towards Valerio, who still hadn't moved. It advanced slowly, forcing him backwards towards the mill. He stumbled over something, a body. Catchut lay motionless on her side. He dropped to the ground next to her and shut his eyes, waiting for the blow to come. Instead, over the hiss of the rain and the rushing water there came a voice, faint and tinny, as if coming from a long way away.

He opened his eyes cried out; the thing loomed above him, its metal head only inches from his face.

"You will not be harmed."

There was that voice again. It seemed to be coming, impossibly, from the thing.

"Get up."

Slowly, he did so. The ground had turned muddy from the rain, he was covered in it.

"Go into the mill, and down the stairs."

He couldn't tell for sure if it was the thing speaking; there was certainly nothing moving on its face. He looked down at Catchut, lying in a muddy puddle on the ground, still not moving. He bent down and picked her up, surprised by how light she was, and followed closely by the thing, carried her into the dark recess that was the entrance to the old mill. Inside a tiny lamp hung from the ceiling, and by its light he could see a flight of stairs in the middle of the room disappearing down. The sphere-thing waved its sword. He nodded, and carefully began to descend. The steps were wide and shallow, but the light did not penetrate far and soon it was pitch-black, forcing him to go even slower. He was just beginning to think the stairs went on forever when a glimmer of light appeared down below, accompanied by a loud voice, shockingly close.

"Welcome," said the voice. "To the Scaedian Deeps."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_"Do you ever read any of the books you burn?"  
He laughed. "That's against the law!"  
"Oh. Of course."_

_Fahrenheit 451_

* * *

The seat was uncomfortable, and Gaulon couldn't help but fidget with his jewellery as he waited for the attendant to return. Unaccustomed to waiting for any stretch of time, he'd already been sitting here a good ten minutes with nothing to do but admire the decadent opulence of the room: gaudy colours splashed on the walls; strange abstract paintings that were all the rage in Corby high society; but worst of all, mounted on a wooden plaque just above the door, a stuffed Kagouti head protruded into the room, evidence, he though, of a diseased mind.

Gaulon got up and went over to the desk on the far side of the room, where a large window looked out over the city. From the window he saw the fires atop the Histon Ziggurat had been lit, meaning even now Khajite slaves were being led up the great stone steps to the altar, where the sacrificial priests would be waiting. It was festival time, a celebration of the Neverine's appearance in the city of Corby. At midday, He would stand on the balcony and bask in the adoration of thousands gathered in the plaza below.

Sickened, Gaulon turned away from the window, but his eye was caught by something on the desk. Sticking out from behind a stack of paper was the corner of a book. Curious, he reached down and pulled it out. The title was written in small golden letters on the cover: _A Bright Day in Spring_. He flicked it open and read the first line.

"When that April, with her sweet showers…"

"Hello, Gaulon."

He spun round quickly. Maria Fitzallen had silently entered the room from the other door, and now stood hands-on-hips staring at him with that piercing stare. He held up the book, and said:

"Bit of bedtime reading, Maria? If I'm not mistaken this was written long before the Second Coming?"

She nodded coolly. "What of it?"

"People might wonder what the Voice is doing with a forbidden text, Maria." He continued to smile. "Even owning one is punishable by the death."

"Oh, give it a rest, you old goat." She came over and looked out of the window. "I was curious, that's all. Take it if you want, I've just finished reading it."

"Thank you." He pocketed the book. "Now, have all the preparations been made?"

"Yes, but there's one more thing that requires your attention."

"What?"

Maria smiled, and from her robes removed the Voice Masque, a heavy wooden sheet of oak that overlapped the forehead and both cheeks but left eyes and mouth free. With exquisite care, she placed the Masque over her face and spoke through it.

"Prepare yourself. The Voice of God speaks."

Gaulon swallowed. "Not now, surely. He is too busy…"

"Prepare yourself!"

Trembling, he got down on the floor and prostrated himself before the Masque. There was a sense of great pressure; the air compressed as if a great weight was pushing down on the room. The Masque's eyes began to shine with a strange white glow, and Gaulon buried his face in the carpet. He knew the Neverine had arrived.

"Rise, my son."

The pressure was still there, buzzing against Gaulon's ears as he raised his head a fraction. The air around Masque seemed to flicker and crackle, a strange metallic taste was on Gaulon's tongue, and a wind was blowing through the room, rattling the windows and the papers on the desk. The voice that issued from the Masque was flat and toneless, like dead leaves.

"Ahhh, Gaulon." The Masque looked down at him with yellow eyes.

"My Lord, I am your humble servant."

"Long has it been since last I looked upon you, my son. Stand, now, and let me look at you."

Gaulon rose. The yellow eyes looked at him, past his face, past his eyes, deep into his mind. He was stripped bare under the gaze. The wind picked up the papers from the desk and swirled them around the room.

"How long has it been, Gaulon, since you came to serve me in this fashion?"

He swallowed. "Lord, it has been thirty-seven years this spring."

"And in all that time…"

Whoosh! The wind rose. The pressure in the room increased.

"In all that time you have served me faithfully. You have been my eyes when I, distracted by some unworldly concerns, have not the will to search every inch of my dominion for base motives and sinister desires."

"My Lord, I have."

"The time may soon be upon us, Gaulon, my son, when your service to me comes to an end. You – small creature that you are – may not realise it yet, but you are old. The waters of Time wash away at you, Gaulon, the tide rises and saps your strength as you swim desperately to climb above it, but it is a futile effort.

"Before I give you your leave, however, there is one last task I would have you undertake."

"Lord?"

"There is a stranger in my land, Gaulon; a traveller from parts unknown. I have felt his presence ever since he set foot on the shores of my Island."

"Surely, my lord, your power maintains the inaccessibility of the Isle still?"

"Yes, it is most puzzling," The eyes of the Masque turned a deep, burning crimson. "The ring of storms that I have set around the Island did not, for some reason, prevent this stranger from entering my domain. Regardless, he is here now, and his presence threatens the stability of my Island. You understand, Gaulon?"

Indeed, he understood.

"The stranger must be found," The Masque continued. "I want you to find him, Gaulon, and when you have found him you must bring him to me. I know he is somewhere in the Westwoods, probably in the clutches of that evil witch Fortuna, whose continued existence is a constant source of pain to me."

Gaulon licked his lips. "Surely, lord, if the Witch has him…is this not a job for your Hand?"

"To lay waste to the Witch's realm and recover him by force you mean?" The Masque laughed, a hollow sound that crackled through the air. "No, Gaulon, I would waste my power contending with that Demon-seed in her own domain. Far better for my trusted Eyes to go about the job in a manner more subtle and delicate; I leave it entirely in your hands, Gaulon. Do not fail me."

"Lord, I will not."

"What is that?"

The Masque stretched out a hand and the book that had been concealed in Gaulon's pocket floated upwards and shot across the room. The Masque snatched it out of the air and examined it.

"A Day in Spring." The eyes turned purple. "Care to explain yourself, Gaulon?"

"My lord, it belongs to your Voice. I had confiscated it and was about to dispose of it."

"Ah, Maria." The voice was soft, almost a whisper. "Such a silly girl…"

There was a long pause. Gaulon didn't dare open his mouth, so the silence stretched on and on while the Masque studied the small book in front of Him. Eventually, the glowing eyes looked down again.

"Do not destroy this yet, Gaulon." The book floated back and fell once again into Gaulon's pocket. "Keep it for a while and study it. It is always best to know thine enemy. Remember, books are liars; they will speak to you, whisper to you, tell you of things that are not true and never were. They are dangerous, Gaulon; do not become a slave to their lies."

"My lord, I will not."

The Masque clapped His hands. There was an explosion of pressure and Gaulon felt his ears drums almost burst, but then he pressure faded and he opened his eyes. The Masque fell to the floor with a dull _thunk_, and again Maria stood there, trembling, her eyes glazed and her mouth open slightly. Ever so slowly, she pitched back until she hit the wall, and then sank to the floor.

Gaulon reached down reverentially and picked up the Masque. It was ice cold. He carefully replaced it on the desk and then turned to look at Maria, who was shivering violently. There was a blanket heaped in a bundle by the desk and he draped it round her, before settling down against the wall himself.

Neither of them spoke. Eventually Maria's shivering became less, and a bit of colour returned to her cheeks. Gaulon was struck by how young she was.

Without looking at him, she said: "Good news, I hope?"

Gaulon shook his head, and this time Maria did turn to look at him. "It would appear as if my time is drawing to a close."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh no, Gaulon. Not so soon, surely?"

"I'm afraid so. But I have had a long and useful life, have served my lord faithfully…my soul will reach the afterlife." He tried to sound convincing.

Maria scrubbed at her tears. "Well, I still don't think it's fair."

"We all must serve, Maria. You needn't worry; you still have many years of service left."

"That's what I'm worried about, Gaulon. I don't know how much longer I can stand it! Having my body invaded…being pushed into the back of my own mind, like a spectator in some puppet show." She took a deep breath. "Sometimes I wish I'd never been chosen for this task."

What she had just said was heresy, punishable by death. Gaulon knew what he should do now was get up and leave, go to the nearest Ziggurat and inform the Priests, who would take her away and execute her.

He said: "The feeling will pass in time. Soon, you will grow to love the honour of giving up your body as a vessel to our Lord."

She shivered. "That's also what I'm afraid of."

* * *

"Come a bit further, towards the light."

Valerio felt the cold hand of the sphere on his back, firmly pushing him forward. The light below him gradually became brighter, until eventually he stumbled off the stairs and came to a large stone archway through which the light shone. Framed against the piercing brightness was a shadowy figure, their voice rich and melodious.

"You can put the Khajite down now."

Valerio shook his head, too tired to speak, and continued on with Catchut's dead weight dragging at his arms.

The figure was a women, tall and stately, her arms folded across her chest.

Valerio walked past her through the archway and into a large vaulted chamber of tanned-brown stone that was completely bare save for two exit archways on opposite sides. There was a rumbling behind him and he turned to see the massive sphere bearing down on him, its arms outstretched. He stumbled backwards.

"Give the Khajite to my Centurion, stranger. She will be cared for."

Valerio hesitated for a fraction of a second, then – legs starting to tremble – placed Catchut on the outstretched arms of the thing. It took her gently and rumbled off through one of the exits, leaving Valerio alone with the woman.

"I'll show you to your chamber."

In a daze he followed her as she led the way through what seemed an endless series of corridors, each constructed of the same dusty stone. Finally they entered a small room, the walls draped in faded coloured curtains tattooed with strange patterns. In one corner was a desk, and in the other, a bed.

"Take off your clothes," she said.

Wearily, he fumbled at his muddy shirt and tried to lift it over his head. It came off and he let it fall to the ground. His breeches were harder; the belt buckle twisted and turned in his numb fingers, refusing to open. A pair of slim hands suddenly appeared, gently feeling the belt. The hands were soft, and gently unclasped the buckle.

He looked down into her eyes, and saw they were deep wells. Her hair was charcoal-black, falling over her face in thick strands. Slowly, those soft hands were placed on his bare chest, forcing him down onto the bed, unlacing his boots and removing his breeches. His head was placed on a pillow and a sheet pulled over him. The eyes swam over his head one last time before the darkness came and the vision ceased.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Spooner: _Can a robot write a symphony? Can a robot turn a canvas into a beautiful masterpiece?_

Sonny: _Can you?_

_I, Robot_

* * *

He awoke into darkness. For a few moments panic gripped him; he wondered why he was in a bed, not on a hammock aboard ship with the creak of sails and hiss of the sea. It was pitch black, and he struggled out of bed, fighting with the sheet that had wrapped itself around him during the night. He stretched out his hands and found a wall, then followed it like a blind man, clattering over invisible objects until a thin square of light appeared before him in the wall. His hands found the door and the handle and pushed it open, flooding the world with light that made his eyes hurt. Squinting painfully, he edged out past the door and into the same corridor he remembered from the night before. There were candelabras hung at intervals from the ceiling, and when he looked right he could see the corridor ended in another door. He walked towards it, padding silently over the cold stones.

The door opened into a long, shadowy room, the walls painted in dark shades of red and mauve with strange paintings hanging from them. Stretching the length of the room was a narrow table made of some rich dark wood, and on the table plates and cutlery had been laid out with delicate candles standing in the centre. It looked for all the world like a diner party whose guests had not yet arrived.

Valerio made his way along the table, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of something at the far end of the room. It was someone sitting down at another table, their face to the wall. He got a little closer and saw the figure was a woman with black hair, the one he'd seen last night. She was bent over the table, engrossed in something, and he got almost to her before she startled and turned round.

There was a gasp and she spun back round again. Her ears, he saw, had gone a bright shade of pink.

"I left some clothes hanging over the end of your bed," her voice was breathless.

Valerio looked down and saw that he was naked.

He hurried back along the room, swearing. There was indeed a set of clothes at the end of his bed: a fine silk shirt, hose and pair of black leather boots. He put them on and returned to the dining room.

The woman gave him a tentative half-glance as he approached, seemingly to check that he had done as she requested, before turning round to look at him properly. There was a moment of silence.

"Well, I suppose you must be hungry." Her voice was high and clear, and she spoke with a cultured elegance that made Valerio feel coarse and rough.

He realised he hadn't had a proper look at her the night before, and saw now that she looked very much like him, with dark olive-coloured skin and a long, aquiline nose. She wore breeches like a man, made of some dark leather, and a black bodice slashed with white.

"Starving," he replied. And indeed it had been yesterday afternoon when last he'd eaten, in the strange twilight of the woods. Questions entered his head straight away. What was this place, who was she? And where was Catchut?

These questions disappeared from his head when he saw that the woman had been seated at another table, very small, that was set against the wall in one corner of the huge room. This table was made of unvarnished wood and mottled with black branch-knots that spoke of poor craftsmanship. On the table was a large silver platter piled high with bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms and tomatoes. Sat next to it was a smaller plate that held a stack of buttered toast.

Delicious smells and great waves of steam wafted from the food, and Valerio felt his mouth begin to water. The woman, whoever she was, indicated another seat across the table before sitting down herself and spearing a piece of toast.

"Please, eat," she said.

He found his own plate and filled it with some of everything. He did not use the knife and fork and instead simply attacked the food with his hands. It was hot and scalded his mouth but he gulped it down, savouring each piece of crispy bacon and fat, juicy sausage; each tomato that exploded in his mouth in a burst of flavour; each bite of black mushroom that tasted of earth and other wholesome things. There was a pitcher of water on the table and he drank from it greedily, the freezing water cooling his mouth and making his teeth ache.

Eventually he stopped, and sank back into the chair with a contented sigh. The woman was watching him from across the table, her face resting in her hands and a faraway look on her face. She caught him looking and seemed to startle out of it. There was an awkward pause.

"Thank you," said Valerio, trying to match her elegant style of speech "That was…very nice."

She nodded. "You eat like my father. He always enjoyed the food I made." She picked at the piece of half-eaten toast on her own plate, still staring at him with those deep, dark eyes he remembered from last night.

Finally he said: "Who are you?" He had meant to say 'Where am I?' but the other question slipped out.

The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, how rude of me. My name is Fortuna Bianchi."

A Durrazan name, thought Valerio. He said: "And what is this place?"

"We are in the Scaedian Deeps, some five hundred metres beneath the surface of the world."

Valerio tried not to react to this, but couldn't stop himself briefly glancing towards the ceiling, imagining the thousand tonnes of rock and earth pressing down overhead.

Fortuna Bianchi had obviously caught his look.

"Don't worry," she said earnestly. "This place has been around for centuries, longer even. It will last long after we are gone, too. But tell me." She leaned in closer, a strange, hungry expression on her face. "Where are you from?"

Valerio paused, before saying carefully: "This is an island, yes?"

Bianchi nodded.

"This place is strange to me. I come from a far-off land."

"Yes! I knew it," she exclaimed. "I knew it as soon as I saw you. You are dark like me; you don't have the pale look of these islanders. What is your name?"

"Esset Valerio."

"Even our names sound similar. Tell me, are you from the Duchy of Akaviri?"

Valerio looked at her strangely "Akaviri? That was swallowed up by Durazzo a century ago."

This seemed to shock her.

"Really? So then you are from Durazzo?"

"Yes."

"So then how did you come here?"

Valerio swallowed. "I was on a ship. They…marooned me. In the middle of the ocean. I suppose I must have drifted here."

"They? You mean your shipmates?"

He shook his head. "It's a long story. But please: what is this island? It is marked on no maps that I have ever seen."

She sighed. "That, too, is a long story. I take it you have seen the Khajites?"

"Yes! I had thought them extinct."

"They are, in Tamriel. But not here, in the Old World." Her eyes were intense.

"Where is the one I was with…the Khajite that was with me in the forest?" He felt bad for not asking about Catchut sooner.

Bianchi delicately sipped at her glass of water before answering. "She is here. She was brought in with you."

"Is she alright?"

"A broken arm, I think, but it will mend. Come with me," she suddenly stood up, causing her leg to bump that table and rattle the cutlery. "I wouldn't be a good host if I didn't show you around." She smiled suddenly.

Valerio, surprised by the sudden change in subject, slowly got to his feet and followed her out of the room.

* * *

"Tell me how you came here."

They were walking along a passage, one that seemed rougher and cruder than the drab stone corridors Valerio had seen so far; the walls were bare rock, chiselled into an uneven surface, glowing torch-brackets protruding into the narrow space. Bianchi had said there was something she wanted to show him, and, lost in this strange underground world, he had accepted.

Bianchi was silent for a long time, and he began to think that she hadn't heard, but finally she said: "We were shipwrecked here, my father and me. A long time ago, now; I was just a little girl. There was a storm and we washed up on the shore, clinging to each other."

Her voice echoed through the tunnel, following along behind them.

"We wandered into the forest, got lost. It was a tiny chance; the Gods favoured us. We sheltered in the old mill and I fell down a set of stairs hidden in the wall. My father found me lost down here, wandering through the tunnels, lit by these strange lights." She indicated the glowing blue veins that twisted through the rocky walls.

"What are they?"

"A form of mineral only found underground. It seems to give light without heat. My father and I were fascinated by them. We thought perhaps that we had died and entered some magical realm, that if we walked far enough we would emerge into the Firmament, and I would see my mother again." She shook her head sadly. "Instead we found an even greater miracle."

They had come to the end of the passage. Valerio shut his eyes against the glare, because from somewhere there came a blinding radiance quite unlike the dim glow of the tunnels. He opened his eyes a crack and slowly the glare resolved itself into a picture.

The passage they had just come through opened out into a great cavern, swathed in a carpet of greenery: a bed of thick grass meandered across the dimpled surface and from it emerged wide belts of flowering shrubs and tangled bushes. From the cavern ceiling hung great creeping vines like mottled ropes that twisted over one another and knotted together, forming heavy clumps. In the other direction grew rough trees, whose pitted bark shimmered in hues of brown, green, and deep crimson, and whose dense branches were decked with broad, brightly-coloured leaves.

Through the ceiling snaked long veins of ore, similar to those in the tunnels, but these were shining with a yellow light so bright that the entire chamber seemed soaked in molten gold.

Valerio could scarcely believe it. Behind him lay long stretches of barren tunnel, lifeless and frozen, without so much as a breath of air to stir its dust. Yet here, deeper underground than he had thought it possible to go, was a verdant jungle of growth that almost hummed with its own inner life, filling the air with rich, earthy smells.

There was stranger to come. As he watched, the vines parted and through the jungle strode a metal figure of the same dull coppery colour as the spheres in the forest. Valerio recoiled. The thing was twice as tall as he, with thick arms and broad shoulders and a square head, set with two large crystals that he took to be its eyes. It came ponderously closer, its metal joints grinding and hissing as it moved.

"Don't' be alarmed," said Bianchi. "It's just a Gardener. Look: it's come to collect grass seeds."

The thing stopped and stooped down with a crunching groan. Its long arm delicately tore at the stalks of some of the longer grass-stems until a large handful had been gathered, then it turned and set off back through the vines leaving a trail of crushed grass underfoot.

"It'll scatter them where the grass has grown thin," Bianchi's voice was soft.

"What is this place?" Valerio asked

"The evergreen jungle. Imagine our surprise when we first stumbled into it, tired and hungry, almost dead of thirst. Come, there is one more thing I would show you."

She took off her shoes and led the way barefoot into the thick grass. After a moments hesitation, Valerio did the same. He was amazed by how warm it was under the glowing lights, and soon he was sweating under the exhaustion of pushing through the vines. A little way in they came to a ring of trees that stretched up far into the ceiling and whose trunks were straight and bare and coloured a silvery grey. Silently, Bianchi led the way through the trunks and they emerged into a small glade. The ground sloped down to form a circular pit, and as Valerio looked he was forced to shield his eyes again, for in the pit was a pool of liquid light.

For a moment it was like looking at the sun itself, but then his eyes adjusted and he squinted down at the pool, which was the most fantastic shade of luminous yellow.

"The Life-Well," said Bianchi. "Go on, drink from it."

"Is it safe? Why does it glow?"

"It does not, it merely reflects the light from above. From this one source the entire jungle grows, its water travels deep channels underground and feeds the roots of plants. Drink from it."

"I'd prefer not."

She laughed.

"The water you drank at breakfast was from here. Look, I will have some." She lowered herself down to the waters edge and scooped up a handful of the stuff. Golden droplets fell from her hand and landed in the pool with a deep _plunk_. She raised it to her lips and drank.

"You see," she said, the ripples in the water throwing golden shades over her face. "Come and drink."

Warily, Valerio stooped down and touched the surface of the pool. Up close it looked more like water, although it was impossible to see more than a few inches past the surface. The water was warm, and he put his fingers to his face and sniffed, but could tell nothing. Finally he shrugged, and scooped a handful quickly into his mouth.

Once, when he was very young, there had been a foreign merchant on his street who sold strange goods from his stall: silks and spices from distant Hammerfall, pottery from Bretonia; and once, on a cold winter day, there had been large mugs of mulled wine. Valerio remembered the hot steam on his cold face as he raised the mug to his lips, feeling the wine burn his tongue and his throat as it went down. This was the same feeling, like he was being scorched clean; even though the water was not hot, it had a cold power that transcended taste. He felt as though anything he ate or drank for now on would taste like ashes.

He turned his head quickly, and for a second saw on Bianchi's face that same hungry expression that she had held before. In a flash it was gone, but he let the rest of the water slide through his fingers and fall back into the pool.

She said: "It is good, is it not?"

He nodded, and his eyes caught a glimpse of something on the other side of the pool: a muddy track that came out of the trees and climbed down to the waters edge, made of trampling hoof-prints.

Bianchi saw where he was looking.

"Sheep," she said. "And other livestock. They are kept in pens further back where the Gardeners tend them." She laughed. "Imagine our surprise, on top of this strange jungle, to find livestock pens deep beneath the earth. It almost seemed made for us."

Valerio lay back on the bank, basking in the unnatural light that looked and felt so natural.

"I can hardly believe this," he said softly. "It all feels like a dream."

"Believe it. It is real enough."

"But where did it all come from? And what did you mean when you said I couldn't leave this place?"

She smiled, flashing her white teeth.

"I'll tell you everything," she said, propping herself on one elbow to look at him. "For now, let's just sit awhile."

He looked at her face, the skin slightly flushed, the lips red, a strand of hair rebelliously stuck across her cheeks. He felt like reaching out and freeing the strand, but knew he wouldn't.

"On the sea," he said. "If you sail out West far enough, all the clouds disappear from the sky and the sun is left hanging there, alone. You realise then that you've never really seen the sun before, because there's been trees or clouds or hills or buildings that get in the way."

* * *

Now they were walking through another long passage. Bianchi had promised to show him incredible sights, sights that would shock and amaze him. Valerio already felt utterly overwhelmed; he had seen more strange things in the last two days than he would have thought possible, none of which he understood. He thought back to the train of events that had ended with him coming to this island, wondering how things could have been done differently and whether it would have made any difference.

"Not far now," said Bianchi, her voice flushed with excitement. She was clearly relishing showing him around, and it made him wonder how lonely it was down here and how long it had been since she'd spoken to another person. Her knowledge was apparently centuries out of date; she spoke of nations that no longer existed as if she had been born in them.

They rounded the next corner and Valerio saw that the passage now ended in a dark doorway framed by two sputtering torches. Bianchi walked forward but he hung back, suddenly apprehensive of the total darkness that lay beyond that doorway.

"Come on," she laughed. "I promise you'll be amazed by what's inside. No no, leave the torch. They'll be light inside." He had made to pick up one of the torches, but now left it alone.

She invited him to enter first, and with some trepidation he did so. He felt ridiculous; after a few steps it was so dark that he felt blind, it had been stupid to come in without any light, he would just go back and get a torch…

In an instant the room was bathed with light. He was surrounded by Spheres. It seemed as though there were hundreds of them, scattered all across the room with no particular organisation, silent and still like deadly squatting beasts. He tried to back out of the room, but was stopped by Bianchi.

"It's alright," she laughed. "There's nothing to be afraid of. They're not even activated: look." She went up to one and tapped its shiny bronze surface. There was no response from the thing.

Valerio, however, remembered only too well the sharp taste of panic he had felt up in the forest as the spheres had surrounded them. The thought finally occurred to him, and he turned accusingly to Fortuna.

"You! These things belong to you?"

"Yes," she said. "I can control them, and speak through them if I wish. It was my voice you heard telling you to enter the old mill."

"Why? Why did you do it? You killed two men."

"Those men were slavers, they captured you. I thought you would be grateful."

"I am, but…" He stopped. "Did you build these things?" He gazed around at the sea of strange machinery.

Bianchi laughed. "Flattery will get you nowhere, I'm afraid. These machines are incredibly advanced; it was all my father and I could do to turn them on and get them working again. They seem to run on some kind of internal power source that I can't understand."

"Demons," Valerio whispered, running his thumb and little finger along both cheeks.

"No," Bianchi said thoughtfully. "Not Demons or anything supernatural. Just some form of advanced machinery. You've seen watermills, haven't you? And pulley systems, and smelters, and ship rudders? Things that would seem magical until you understand the principle. These machines were built many, many years ago by an ancient race called the Dwemer. This was their city," She made an all-encompassing motion with her hands. "It was called Scaedia. They buried deep into the earth with strange devices, and built wondrous machines to do their bidding. It must have been incredible to see in its day: a fully working Dwemer city."

"So what happened to them?"

"I don't know. It's hard to believe they just disappeared, but certainly this empty city seems to be all that is left of their civilisation." She went up to one of the spheres and ran a hand along its smooth surface. "My father and I inherited what they left behind."

"So you can somehow make these things work?"

She nodded. "I have many spies in the forest. When I see a group of slavers, I order the spheres to hunt and kill them. But when I looked at you I could see that you were different. You looked more like me, and you wore strange clothes. I brought you down here so I could find out about you. And now, it seems, we have much in common. Both stranded here, on this island, against our wills."

"What about escape? There must be boats, ships?"

"There are, but that is no help. As soon as you get a certain distance from the shore of this island a terrible storm blows up, forcing you back or drowning you in the sea. That was how my father lost his life."

"I'm sorry."

Fortuna nodded.

"Are you saying," said Valerio, slowly. "That it's impossible to leave the island?"

"Yes."

He looked round desperately for a moment, as if searching for something that would get them off the island, but there were only the strange machines, sitting eerily quiet. He sat down against one of them and put his head in his hands.

"I can't believe it. There must be a way."

"There isn't, and don't waste time trying to find one."

"But…why? Why are there storms? How come I didn't see any?"

"Come with me. I've got one more thing to show you."

Wearily, Valerio rose and followed her out of the room. They walked through more long stone passages and through great empty rooms that once had probably looked rich and opulent but were now covered with fine layers of dust. There was an eerie lifelessness to this place, thought Valerio. It was a place of metal and stone.

They came to a large set of doors, made of some dark wood that was almost black. Two silver doorknockers in the shape of grotesque faces were set in the wood, and below them was a great silver handle. Bianchi went up to the doors, grasped the handle and with a great heave pushed until both doors swung slowly inwards. She turned round and beckoned Valerio in, before entering herself.

It was a library. Vast, high wooden shelves lined each and every wall of a huge chamber whose ceiling stretched out far above them, and on each shelf were stacked rows and rows of books. The walls and ceiling of the chamber were made of white marble, while the floor seemed to be some sort of patterned mosaic in tiles of green, red, gold, black and yellow that was too massive for Valerio to see properly. Along the ceiling ran thin veins of the golden ore, filling the chamber with the same bright, sunny light as the Evergreen Jungle. The air was cool and fresh.

In the centre of the room he could see a small pedestal, and as they walked closer he saw that it was about chest height with a wide sloped section that held a book, open at a page.

"Go and read." Bianchi's voice echoed in the huge room. Valerio went forward and saw that the book was large and thick, and that it seemed to be open on the first page. The paper was very thin and quite soft to the touch.

Bianchi had not asked Valerio whether he could read. In fact he had been taught by his father, and was proud of his skill with letters, a skill that wasn't common amongst sailors. He could see that the letters were written in bold, black ink, done in a flowery archaic style that made it difficult to understand. The first page had only two lines and they read like this:

_The __Book of the Realm,_

_Being an account of the rise of the Neverine and the last days of the Imperial Empire_

This took him a while to puzzle out. The word Neverine was particularly hard because, instead of being written in ink, it seemed to have been painted in incredibly stylised letters with red and gold paint. He turned the page and was greeted with a large illustration, done in black ink, depicting a figure standing at the very top of a mountain peak with arms outstretched, as if trying to fly. On the opposite page the text began in full, and Valerio started to read.

_Wreathed in a veil of fire, the Neverine descended the slopes of Red Mountain, and with His Mighty Hand caused the very rock itself to shake upon its base. He stretched forth His other hand, and a great storm was called from the Firmament to break upon the rock and the sea._

_The clouds rolled back, and the long winter of the land departed and the wild roaring seas were themselves tamed, and with impotent mutinous fury were receded, uncovering the land beneath. And this new land did the Neverine cause to be covered in trees, forests, bountiful bushes, thick-watered fenland, great creased hills and flats and plateaus and long limbed rivers and streams._

_And __He called this land Vvardenfell, for it was His realm, and most fair unto him._

"What does it mean?" asked Valerio, looking up from the page and turning to Bianchi. "I don't understand."

"It is the Book," she replied slowly. "The Book of the Realm. Written by the prophet Niculescu over seven hundred years ago. And, for the most part, it is all lies."

"I've heard the name Neverine."

Bianchi nodded. "Yes. He is a frequent character in Dunmer folk tales, the great hero who cannot be defeated and fights against the persecution of the empire. Originally, though, the story of the Neverine was a prophesy, one so old that it predates the empire. This prophesy foretold the emergence of the Neverine, who would cast down the evil Gods and unite all the peoples of the world under his banner. Around seven centuries ago, this event took place.

"At that time, this island of Vardenfell was simply another province of the empire, paying tribute and trading with the Imperial provinces on the Mainland. The majority of the population were Dunmer, although from what I've been able to learn the Neverine himself was not, which seems strange considering that the theme of Dunmer racial superiority is so central to the Neverine prophesy. Regardless, he somehow managed to unite the various Dunmer faction and tribes and after a bloody struggle defeated the Imperial army stationed on the Island. As you probably know, the Empire was failing and had long since lost the ability to respond to such a disaster."

"It collapsed," muttered Valerio.

"Yes. Vardenfell was but the first leaf to fall, and after centuries of long and stable peace the empire took only the better part of a hundred years to tear itself apart. During this turmoil, all records of Vardenfell seem to have been lost, and the island itself disappeared from all knowledge. This suited the newly-crowned Neverine perfectly. He defeated the dark god Dagoth Ur on the slopes of Red Mountain and established his own rule on Vardenfell: The Realm of the Neverine. This book - " She indicated the thick tome on the pedestal. "Was the first stage of his dominance of the isle, declaring that the Neverine is himself a God and that he created the island of Vardenfell. It was ostensibly written by a man named Niculescu, who was made a prophet by the Neverine. But Niculescu was no prophet, he was a historian, a man who documented the events of the time. His original notes were changed and collected in a book and this book copied and distributed to everyone in the Neverine's new Realm, and such was history replaced by legend."

Bianchi stopped breathlessly, a looked of excitement on her pretty face. Valerio stood silently for a few moments, gazing at the book and admiring the tiny network of interwoven fibres that made up the paper. He looked up and said: "How could you possibly know all that?"

Bianchi smiled with relish. "This library was not built by the Dwemer. It was built in imperial times, and contains all of Niculescu's original notes, completely unaltered, describing all that happened during the Second Coming."

"You say Second Coming. Was there a first?"

She looked troubled suddenly. "I'm not sure. That was what Niculescu always called it: The Second coming of the Neverine. But I've never found any references to a first coming and it isn't mentioned anywhere else."

There was a pause while Valerio tried to take it all in. He felt like he was floundering, desperately treading water and trying to keep his head above the surface. Eventually he said: "Alright. Suppose that it's all true, and that this island is ruled by this…Neverine. How does that help me get out of here?"

Bianchi shook her head. "That's just it. One of the first things the Neverine did was create a ring of storms around the island to stop anyone leaving, and to make sure that no-one from the empire tried to take his new kingdom from him. I still don't think he knows that the empire has fallen."

"He created the storms? How?"

"He is the Neverine."

"Is he a God?"

"No, just a man, I think. But most people on the island believe that he _is_ a god, and that's one way he managed to keep power. There's a vast hierarchy of priests who keep people in line; any slight act of dissension is heresy, and heresy is punishable by death. Just think of it," she leaned in close to Valerio. "You and I are the only people on this entire island who know the truth. Everyone else believes the lie, but we know what really happened."

"Yes, well it doesn't do us a lot of good if we can't escape. How long have you been here?"

"Oh…about, fifteen years, I think. It's hard to tell." She didn't meet his eyes.

"So how was it that you were able to get through the storms?"

"We nearly didn't, as I told you. The rest of our ship was lost."

"There were no storms when I was out there. The sky was utterly cloudless."

"Then perhaps the storms do not run round the entire island, perhaps there are gaps."

"Perhaps? You don't know?"

"I only know what Niculescu wrote. Come over here and I'll show you." She walked across the tiled floor to one of the mighty bookshelves. After a moment Valerio followed, and saw that there was a long table at the foot of the shelf which was covered in bits of paper and several inkwells. Bianchi rooted amongst the paper for a few seconds before finding what she wanted. The document she handed to him was ancient, yellowed and cracked, and covered in any number of small marks and stains. It crackled in his hands when he took it.

"This was one of the last things Niculescu ever wrote," Bianchi said. "His hand trembled with age, makes it hard to read."

Valerio squinted at the meandering script, written in a different style of handwriting than the Book. He could just about make it out.

_Heartfire-seventeen, the year 435 of the Third Era._

_His Lordship the Neverine announced today the completion of His great project. The great ring of storms now reaches the full length around Vardenfell at a distance of exactly seventy-five miles, far enough to allow the fishing fleets out but close enough to prevent any overlap onto the main Imperial transport lines._

_This announcement was made only to the most senior of Priests and army generals. I do not think his Lordship believes that the people will accept what he has done. To cut off an entire island from the rest of the world is to doom it to a life of lonely isolation. What wondrous things will happen in the world outside, what fantastical discoveries will be made that we will have no part of, alone in this prison. I do not doubt that this act will have the most profound consequences for the island of Vardenfell._

_"Quite a fitting epitaph, don't you think?" said Bianchi. "He was proved right; a month after the storms were created the Neverine brought every single Dunmer man woman and child on the island to the top of Red Mountain. They were never seen again. In just a few years the Order of Priests had been created. Do you know what they do?"_

Valerio shook his head.

"Human sacrifice. Khajite slaves are taken to the top of mighty pyramids, where their hearts are cut from their chests and eaten alive by the priests. That is the fate that awaits all Khajite slaves at some point, when their usefulness is ended."

Valerio put his hands up. "This still doesn't explain why I didn't see any storms."

"I don't know why you didn't see them." Bianchi's voice became slightly flustered. "Perhaps…perhaps, over time, the magicka that sustained the storms has weakened, creating some gaps in the ring."

"Well then we can escape. If there are gaps we simply have to find them and go through them."

"Oh no," Bianchi said. "No, that would be impossible."

"Why?"

"We don't even know the gaps exist; if we got it wrong we'd be killed. Valerio, I know how you feel: the desperation, the feeling of being trapped here, of never seeing your home again."

She reached out and touched his shoulder.

"But trust me, you can be happy here. Outside these tunnels and these walls, yes, the island is an evil place, but in this ancient stronghold we are protected. We have all we need to be happy here. You will come to think of Scaedia as your home." She spoke fervently, her voice humming with passion.

"I don't think I want to, if it's all the same to you." He turned away sharply.

Bianchi stood for a second, her hand outstretched where Valerio had broken her touch, a desperate expression on her face. She slowly withdrew the hand, and took a long, jagged breath.

There was a pause.

"Where is Catchut?"

Bianchi looked up, her eyes suddenly angry. "I told you. She's here."

"Where?"

"Somewhere. Around." She waved a hand in no particular direction. "Why do you care so much? She's only a Khat."

"I want to see her."

"Why?" Bianchi asked, almost sullenly.

Valerio took a deep breath. "Please. I'd like to see her."

Bianchi's pale features worked furiously, as if she was struggling with something. Finally she sighed, gave a toss of her long, black hair and said, "Yes, alright. Follow me and I'll take you to her." Her face still twisted in a grimace of annoyance, she led the way back across the marble floor of the library and out again into the tunnels.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Gaulon's carriage trundled into the city of Corby just as night was beginning to fall. The great wall topped with ornate crenulations that circled the city loomed above as a cry went up to raise the portcullis. This was one of only two entrances into Corby and was much less guarded than the gate set in the northern wall that looked out over Westwood. That gate was fortified with round towers and a platoon of soldiers manned the ramparts at all times. By contrast, this southernmost gate had only a few guards, and Gaulon was well known enough for his carriage to be waved through almost immediately.

It had taken him a week to reach Corby, travelling at breakneck speed along the highway that connected Stormouth to the Western provinces, having to stop and replace the horses at regular intervals. They had gone through four teams, and the further north they got the worse the quality of replacement from local dealers. Gaulon hated the West; nothing that could be bought here was half as good as in the south, and he should know.

Corby was the only Western settlement that could be called a city; it was an ancient fortress-town that had grown rich on the mining of ash-shale from nearby quarries and whose massive walls had stood long before the Second Coming. Through the city from east to west flowed the River Enbourne, and to the north was the Westwood, an impenetrable barrier that prevented attack from the barbarian Khajite tribes that roamed the land beyond the woods.

The horses' hooves clattered over the cobblestones. They were passing the market district, all dark stalls and shut shops that during the day would be buzzing with activity but now were silent. The lantern-lighters had come out and were moving through the streets with their long poles, the end of which was wrapped in cloth soaked in oil and burning with a fierce flame. Each street corner had a large paper lantern of blue, gold or red set high up in the buildings that the Lighters would use their poles to light, creating a soft glow that was just enough to guide people through the streets. The only other light came from the Ziggurat, the massive structure at the centre of Corby. The city was unusual in that it only had one Ziggurat, especially considering that most the Khajite slaves were caught far to north and brought down to Corby for processing, but the city always maintained a wariness towards the Order of Priests that was quite unlike the fanatical devotion of the South.

Gaulon recalled how in the South the mere rumour of heresy could raise a mob. He had seen it happen; a neighbour who bore a grudge, a whispered rumour that spread and grew until the origin of the rumour was lost and all the mattered was the cleansing of the heresy. Often, by the time the Priests arrived, there would just be a pile of ash where the victim's house once stood.

Gaulon rapped the carriage ceiling to indicate they had arrived at the House. The House was small structure maintained by Gaulon's spy network that acted as a headquarters when he was in the city. There were such buildings in all the major cities of the island, each one indistinguishable from the residence of a minor noble.

The carriage pulled up sharply and the driver jumped off and ran to help Gaulon dismount. A chill had entered the air and Gaulon shivered as he emerged from the warm interior, pulling his robes tight and trying to breathe some warmth into his hands. The driver went quickly to the front door of the House and knocked. There was a whispered exchange, during which Gaulon stamped his feet and watched the breath mist in front of his face, before finally the door was opened and the driver – whose name was Franson – entered to check the building. Franson was Gaulon's bodyguard, an efficient man of many years experience and possessed of thoughtful mind that would not allow his master to enter any unknown area unless it had been checked thoroughly. Eyes of God were rarely assassinated – to do so was the very worse kind of heresy – but there was always a chance.

Franson reappeared at the doorway and beckoned to indicate that the building was safe.

"About time," said Gaulon.

It was marginally warmer in the hallway. A few chinks of light escaped from a closed door at the far end, and the wooden floorboards clunked underfoot as Gaulon followed Franson towards it. The layout was familiar to him from his last visit a few years ago; a simple two-storey structure with stairs and washroom leading off from the main kitchen, and a large basement with a secret exit.

Franson opened the door and they went through. As cold as it had been outside, the kitchen was sweltering, with the kind of dank humidity that came from many things being cooked at once. There were two fires, both ensconced in large stone hearths of ash-shale over which hung two great cauldrons that belched out thick clouds of steam. In the centre of the kitchen was a square wooden table with a few chairs, and standing around it were two people, a man and a woman, dressed in plain cotton clothes.

"The housekeepers," said Franson.

Gaulon nodded. "Remove them," he said, going over to the cauldrons and examining their contents. "And send for Sencer, just in case he doesn't know I'm here already."

Franson ushered the two grimfaced housekeepers out of the room, then left himself.

The cauldrons were filled with a kind of stew. Realising how hungry he was, Gaulon found a bowl on one of the kitchen benches and ladled himself a generous portion of the boiling-hot stuff. Then he went over to the door that led to the basement, grabbed a candlestick, and descended the steps into a dark stone room littered with wooden, boxes, chests, paper piles and racks of weapons: all the equipment that would ever be needed by a user of the House.

Gaulon went to one of the paper piles and began to search. Great layers of dust erupted into the cold air and made his eyes scratchy, but the thing he was searching for remained elusive. Finally he found it, buried under a stack of old spy reports from the time of a previous Eyes. He tucked it under one arm and went back up the stairs to the kitchen.

Someone was already there.

"Hello, Gaulon," said Sencer, relaxing in one of the chairs. His long black hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he wore and large white shirt that hung loosely over his wiry frame.

Gaulon snorted. "So, you have a man in the gateway guards. That's the only way you could have known of my arrival and got here so quickly."

Sencer smiled, displaying a set of fine white teeth that accentuated his broad and handsome features. He was the head of the spy network in Corby.

"Well, we try to do out best without you, sera Toquerville."

"Mmm, I don't doubt it." Gaulon went to the table and spread out the thing he had found in the basement. It was a large map of the Westwood, dating back to when the place was still safe before the coming of the Forest Witch, drawn in beautiful detail with fine colours and rich paints that had only partially faded with the years. The paper itself was yellowing and a little chewed at the edges, but Gaulon was entirely willing to overlook its condition because this was the only known map of the Westwood, the Witches Domain, through which adventurous slavers still travelled sometimes when their stocks became low. The mortality rate was apparently around one in two.

"I've got some bad news, sera," said Sencer. "We are not the only ones with spies inside the guard. By now word of your arrival will have reached the Baron, and he will waste no time dispatching someone over here."

"Damn it," Gaulon banged a fist into the table. "These feudal lords and their petty squabbles will be the death of me. Has his attitude thawed a little since the last time I was here?"

"No, sera. If anything, he has taken the expansion of our operations here in the city as a personal affront. Three of our agents in the Palace have been murdered in the last year, although there is no clear evidence linking them to the Baron's men."

"Murder?" Gaulon said incredulously, then roared with laughter. "He has gone too far this time."

Suddenly there came a loud hammering sound from somewhere in the house. Gaulon exchanged glances with Sencer, and then the other man got slowly to his feet and went off to get the door. Gaulon sat and sipped at the bowl of stew, which had become tepid.

There was the sound of a door being opened, followed by raised voices. Gaulon put the bowl back on the table and steepled his fingers, watching the kitchen door intently. Footsteps echoed through the corridor, and then with a bang the door flew open to admit a short, stocky man dressed in long velvet robes of deep crimson. His hair was tousled and a rough stubble covered his flushed cheeks.

"You!" He cried, striding into the kitchen. Sencer followed quickly behind.

"I'm sorry, Gaulon," Sencer apologised. "He barged right past me."

Now behind Sencer came two of the Baron's guardsmen, with the red eagle that was the Baron's house symbol emblazoned across their hauberks.

Breathing hard, Baron Monluc reached for his belt and slowly withdrew a long hilt-less dagger. With infinite care he walked over to Gaulon and plunged the dagger into the table with a loud thunk, tearing the map of the Westwood.

"I warned you, Gaulon." The Baron's voice was gloating. "I told you that if you ever set foot in my city again I would not be held responsible for my actions. Ahh, Gaulon – did you think you could slip back in unnoticed? That _I_ wouldn't notice?" His voice rose. "This is my city, Gaulon. _My_ city! You are far from the southern provinces here, my friend. In this place, I am the law."

All this time Gaulon had remained silent, passively sitting over the table and staring at the far wall with a distant expression. Finally he stirred, leaned back in the chair and spoke in a voice of glass.

"Baron Monluc, during my stay in Corby I will require full access to any of the cities facilities – including, but not limited to: the main library, the outer guardhouses, the Palace barracks, the Priest headquarters, the Ziggurat and any inn, tavern or bawdyhouse that happens to take my fancy in the course of an evening."

"Are you listening, Gaulon? I said I'm going to kill you!"

"Furthermore," Gaulon continued as if there had been no interruption. "Owing to the demands of time, I will be forced to commandeer a sizable proportion of the city guard. These will be subject to no direction but mine until such time as I deem my task complete, at which point they will return to their normal duties. Well, I think that concludes our business together, Baron." He smiled up at Monluc, whose face had twisted into a grimace of rage.

The Baron snarled and grabbed his dagger from the table. He raised it up to strike but found his hand grabbed by Sencer, who had withdrawn his own wickedly curved knife and placed it against the Baron's throat. There was a hiss of metal as the two guards drew their swords, but in a second two more blades had appeared at their throats. Franson had quietly arrived via the front door and crept up behind them, watching carefully until he judged the situation right.

One of the guards moved slightly, then gave a small choking sound as the pressure of the knife at his throat was increased.

The Baron's eyes flew wildly in his skull. The knife at his throat meant he couldn't move for fear of slicing his neck open, while his own knife was still raised in the air, caught in Sencer's strong grip, making him look like some absurd statue.

"Baron Monluc," said Gaulon. "You are under arrest for high treason against the Lord God. The penalty is death. The sentence is to be carried out immediately." He made a signal to Sencer, who shifted his grip on the knife and prepared to cut the Baron's throat.

"Gaulon!" The Baron almost screamed. "What treason, what are you talking about? You can't just kill me."

"I can and will."

"I'm no traitor!"

"Indeed you are, Baron. Do you want to know why?" Very slowly, he got up from the chair and pushed his face close to the Baron's. "Because I say it is so. And if I say it is true – why, then there can be no doubt."

"You have no right."

"It is _my_ right." Gaulon shouted. "Do you hear me? By _my_ word do you live or die."

There was a long pause. The Baron's face was deathly pale; he looked about to faint.

Gaulon drew a ragged breath.

"Go on. Get out of my sight." He gave a dismissive wave and collapsed again in the chair.

Hardly able to believe it, the Baron felt the pressure at his throat ease as the knife was withdrawn. Sencer took a step back, still with the knife in his hand. The two soldiers, who had been remained motionless all this time with hands on their swords, were also freed.

Monluc stood massaging his throat, staring at Gaulon, his face still white. Finally he spoke.

"You'll regret this Gaulon," he said through clenched teeth. "Your power is fading. It's said that God is tired of your service; that you are to be replaced soon. Gone are the days when you could call on His support for your little games. Remember that."

"Goodbye, Baron. I expect my earlier requests to be granted in full." Gaulon did not look up.

Monluc turned and staggered out the door, his guards following close behind. The front door slammed and they were gone.

Franson immediately began apologising.

"I'm sorry, sir, I tried to deliver your message as quickly as possible and get back here. If I'd arrived any later…"

"It's fine, Franson."

"Sera, I wonder why you did not let me kill him." Sencer's voice was soft.

"Ten years ago I would have. But not now, not now." Gaulon sighed. "I am suddenly very tired."

"I will have the housekeepers prepare your room, sir," said Franson.

"Very good. Sencer, please sit down with me let's talk business before I retire." He carefully spread the map out again. The tear left by the Baron's knife was not large, and didn't obscure anything important.

"You're probably wondering why I've come," he said. "I can tell you that the Lord Above has given me a special task to perform, a very difficult task, as it happens. It will also probably be my final deed as the Eyes of God." He glanced at Sencer to gauge his reaction. None was obvious, so he continued. "I see that does not surprise you."

"You are not becoming any younger, sera." The ghost of a smile played over Sencer's face.

"Indeed. Well, this last task I am determined to fulfil, if only to prove a point to myself."

"What is it we must do?"

Gaulon looked squarely at Sencer. "The Westwood. We must go into it and find a man. He is, apparently, a guest of the Witch Fortuna."

Sencer took this in, and nodded slowly. He then replied. "That is impossible."

Gaulon shook his head. "This won't do, Sencer. I know you better than that."

"Sera, it is the simple truth. There is only one way to pass through the forest alive, and that is to somehow avoid the attentions of the Witch. Any that she sees passing through her domain are never heard of again." He shook his head emphatically. "To actively seek her out, then, is no less than purest folly."

"Nevertheless, that is what we must do. I will leave you ponder it overnight, and in the morning we will speak again." He rose from his seat and made for the door.

"Goodnight, sera."

"Goodnight, Sencer. Oh, and one last thing," he said, just as he reached the door. "If you ever let someone get that close to me with a knife again, I'll have you killed."

He went out, closing the door behind him, leaving Sencer alone in the stifling kitchen.

* * *

Valerio needn't have worried about Catchut; she was awake and lying on a long wooden plinth in what Bianchi called the Water Room, a large, circular chamber of marble and stone that was centred around a pool of still, clear water. The room was decorated with ornate pillars, statues, railings and mosaics and was decked out with a variety of green, leafy plants that gave it a lively feel, accentuated by the veins of Light-ore that ran through the ceiling as in the library and Evergreen Jungle.

Catchut's arm had been set with a wooden splint and then placed in a sling. When Valerio and Bianchi entered, she made to get up but grimaced as the movement caused her arm to shift. Lying on the floor was a large brass platter and scattered around it were what looked like breakfast: a hunk of bread, strips of meat and strange roots and berries. They were lying in a pool of water next to an overturned jug.

"Who are you?" Catchut hissed at Bianchi, baring her teeth. "What am I doing here? Valerio!" Her eyes widened when she saw him. "What is going on?"

"It's alright, Catchut," Valerio said soothingly. "You're safe. We're underground, apparently."

"You'll want to watch that arm," Bianchi interrupted. "It'll take several weeks to heal." She indicated the mess of food and water. "I see you didn't care for the breakfast I laid out."

"What is this? What have you done to my arm?" She moved it slightly, then cried out at the pain.

"I've saved it," Bianchi said coolly. "It needed to be set and splinted, or it would have healed crooked."

"You are the Witch of the Woods?" Catchut's eyes widened in fear.

Bianchi clucked disapprovingly. "Yes, I believe that's what they call me."

"The spheres, they were your servants."

"How did you know that, Catchut?" Valerio said, puzzled.

Bianchi spoke over Catchut. "I don't doubt that there are stories of my machines amongst the Khajite. None of them accurate, probably."

"You are a demon," whispered Catchut."

"Oh, stop it, I am no such thing. I apologize, however, for breaking your arm. It was not intended."

Catchut was clearly terrified. She backed up against the railing until her back was pressed hard against it, one had reaching for the knife in her belt.

"I have taken your dagger," Bianchi said. "I will not allow weapons down here."

Valerio sat on the plinth and tried to reassure her. "Catchut, it's alright. She's not an enemy."

"She is the Witch. She kills all those who enter her domain."

"Nonsense. I kill slavers when they come, but that is all."

"Fortuna, could you leave us alone for a moment, please," Valerio said.

Bianchi looked as though she had been slapped. A panicky look came onto her face and she opened her mouth slightly. Then her eyes hardened and she turned and swept out of the room, brushing past the leafy plants with an angry rustle.

Valerio had no time to wonder at the strangeness of her reaction, because Catchut immediately tried to stand up again and screamed with pain. She was obviously desperately afraid and caught between the pain in her arm and her own fear at being in the lair of a witch. Valerio grabbed her other arm and unceremoniously pulled her back down on the plinth, holding her in place and speaking in the calmest voice he could manage.

"She saved us both, out there in the forest. We would have been slaves, and I know what would have happened to you. She's explained a lot of things to me about this island."

Catchut was breathing hard through her nose, and her muscles were tense. She said nothing for a while, and then spoke in a dull voice, "She has caught you in her spell."

"No, I just understand things now. Listen." He explained about the Dwemer, and how Bianchi and her father had been shipwrecked on the island and had made the machines work again. He told her how the machines were only used to attack slavers, never Khajite.

"Then how do you explain this?" Catchut held up her broken arm.

"She made a mistake, that's all."

"Lies," hissed Catchut. "All lies. How long do you suppose she has been living here? In this forest?"

"I…don't know."

"The Witch has lived in the Westwood as long as my people can remember. She says she was shipwrecked here. How long ago do you suppose that was?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Fool! She has been here for centuries, using her foul magicks to build strange beings of metal and stone and then infusing them with the spirits of demons. She kills all those she finds in her wood."

"Then why are we still alive?"

Catchut gave him a long, hard stare. "I think I know," she said coldly.

There was a pause.

"What?" Valerio said.

Catchut shook her head. "Just like a male! You are completely blind." She stopped and looked down at her arm, grimacing slightly. "I cannot walk or run with this thing on. We must wait for it to heal and then make our escape."

"Escape? What are you talking about? We're safe here."

"No, we are in mortal danger," Catchut said. "You must find the routes that lead up to the surface, so that we may take them when the time comes."

"You can leave if you want, but I'm staying here." It was strange: all Valerio had wanted to do before was to find some way off the Island, whatever the cost. Now he found himself suddenly reluctant to leave Scaedia.


End file.
